


Bleeding Gently

by Johns_Jam_Maker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confident Sherlock, John's dad is a dick, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, M/M, Poor John, Popular Sherlock, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, Virgin John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5841451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Jam_Maker/pseuds/Johns_Jam_Maker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the death of his mother, A teenage John Watson finds his life going in a downward spiral. The only thing that keeps him grounded is Sherlock. But when Sherlock begins to turn on him, how will John cope? TW: Parental death, abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> John and Sherlock are both 16! I'm hoping to update weekly so please leave me some reviews and let me know how I'm doing. Enjoy!

 John shifted his weight between his feet as he waited for an answer to the door, rain lashed against his face but he didn't move to shield himself with his hood. It hadn't hit him yet. The words seemed to ring in his ears, knocking around his head, but he couldn't accept it.

He knew before they'd been told. He had been pulled from school. Taken to the hospital. As soon as he had seen Harry and his father standing together, hugging, his father's hands clenching until his knuckles showed through his pale skin, he knew. But he hadn't cried, not there. He had left, walking out of the hospital with a façade of calmness. He felt as though he had been deafened, only able to hear the strong beating of his heart. Where else could he have went but to Sherlock's? Home wasn't a place he'd be able to face for a very long time.

The next series of events aren't clear to John. His eyes are blurry suddenly and his legs are weak. He is overcome by the crushing sense of choking. He didn't seem able to breathe. Every time he tried, his throat would close up. The tears were hot against his cheeks in contrast to the cold rain, but John couldn't grasp it, not now.

He was young to have lost his mother, just like so many others.

"Christ, John?" Sherlock's voice is incredulous as he stares at the boy in front of him. He read what had happened off of John's face. Of course, he knew his mother had been unwell but John never was one to pity himself or project his worries onto others. Rather than saying 'a problem shared is a problem halved,' he would reply; 'A problem shared is a problem doubled,' in a giddy tone. Truly, Sherlock had no idea how bad it has been.

"Mu-" John's lips parted as he attempted to speak. Instead what comes out is a horrendous sound as John's voice cracks. His eyes screw shut with a cried sob and he falls forward against Sherlock, who's lanky arms engulf him in a surprisingly comforting embrace. The taller boy struggled to hold him up for a moment, as John could barely support his own weight, but caught himself and wrapped a tight arm around John's waist, guiding him into the house. John's hand tightened in Sherlock's shirt, clasping the material as though letting go would end his life. Sherlock was the only thing that John could process at the moment, he was the only thing that felt real. So he held on.

As the shock began to subside, John is paralysed with the pain of guilt which follows the death of a loved one. He hadn't visited his mother in the hospital much. She hadn't been herself for over a month now. The tumour had infected the person he loved. And like an infection, it was the thing that had killed her. The doctors told John she was comfortable, she wasn't in any pain. Although John would never wish anything else for his mother, the medication allowing this had stolen away his last few weeks with her in a muddle of confusion and sleep.

His mother was the best person in the world. It sounded cliché, but she was the one that had kept a grip on John's father and Harry. He knew that their downward spiral would occur very quickly now that his mother was gone. They both drank too much, and his father's nature changed so dramatically when he did so.

"I-" John's voice is so different, alive with grief. "I-never...S-Said goodb-" his head lifted from Sherlock's chest where it had been hidden, exposing his face which was twisted and contorted. His eyes red and puffy, contrasting harshly with the paleness of his skin.

As Sherlock looked down at him, he felt his own cold eyes stinging with the tell tale blur of tears. Even Sherlock wasn't immune to his reaction whilst witnessing something so heart wrenching. But he had no words to return to John in reply to his own choked ones. Sherlock never was and never would be a comforting or empathetic person.

Naturally, he went with something he knew he had to do. His hands pushed the short black coat off of John's shoulders, letting it drop into a damp pile behind the boy on the sofa. His fingers skirted down the boys chest, popping open the buttons one by one. Honestly, the last thing either of them needed was John catching ill because of wet clothes. Johns eye's rose as Sherlock slipped the shirt off of his shoulder and put it aside, meeting Sherlock's hard, grey ones. Sherlock looked back, but didn't stop with what he was doing. He reached aside to collect a crumpled jumper of his he'd thrown aside earlier and tipped it over John's head. It swamped him, as Sherlock was much taller than his boyfriend. He did the same with John's trousers, leaving the room for just a moment to find some jogging bottoms and pull them on John, before making him lie down, kneeling by the boys head and scattering kisses across his cheeks,

"Sleep, John. You'll need your strength." It seemed like an appropriate comment to make.

It took a long time, but eventually, he did. Grief is draining, after all, and following hours of chest crying, John eventually fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. Sherlock dealt with the business, informing his mother of the situation as well as John's father where he was. Sherlock hadn't expected him to take kindly to it or understand why John was here, and he hadn't.

Beams of light danced across the carpet as the morning brought the sun, which leaked in through the sides of the curtains. Sherlock was sitting with crossed legs on the arm chair by the couch John lay on, his hands steepled under his chin and his eyes closed lightly. How inconvenient; John would be in a solemn mood for months.

"Sherlock?" A hoarse voice broke Sherlock out of his thoughts, his eyes opening and locking onto John,

"I'll make you some breakfast, then we'll go for a walk. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like, but I wouldn't think your father would be too happy about it." Sherlock's word seem harsh and to the point, but there is a soft expression on his features and his hand reached out to touch Johns, then he crawled over onto the sofa, pressing his lips to the boys in an attempt at comfort.

John was nodding. He understood. He reached out to lace his fingers with Sherlock and sighed shakily, but he wouldn't cry again. He would pick himself up and endure this. Yet, there was something simmering just below his chest. Perhaps he was wrong, but it felt like anger. Towards who? John knew it was illogical, but he couldnt stop the feeling growing.

"Thanks," he replied to Sherlock's kisses, but he didn't say any more about the situation, instead, he lifted himself up, brushing himself down and letting out a heavy sigh, "Did you mention breakfast?" John had never felt like eating less, but he had to try go on as normal, and hope that it healed him over time.

Sherlock nodded, keeping a hold of John's hand as he led him to the kitchen, smiling warily as he presented the horrifically cooked, yet edible breakfast he had prepared. John chuckled, and had never felt so weak in his life, but he chuckled none the less and met Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock caught his in reply and smiled, his grey eyes sparkling.

They didn't need to state in words that they loved each other, that came through actions.

*****

_John hid his face as he walked along the corridors, ignoring the whisperers. He could catch his name in nearly every conversation if he focused properly, which is exactly why he didn't, preferring to shut himself off as he walked through what felt like crowds of murmurs staring his way. His throat was tight but he held onto the strap of his school bag until his knuckles turned white, his fingernails digging into the stylishly frayed material, he had to control himself. Sherlock was waiting for him. Then finally he may be able to piece together what the fuck is going on._

_He started jogging as he ducked out of the school doors, walking along the field and trying to ignore the rub of material against the red and sore skin of his wrists. He lifted his eyes from the muddied floor for a second and faltered in his steps as he saw a mass of dark curls which could honestly only be Sherlock's. He sighed and cleared his throat to call when his ears caught onto another voice._

_Edging forward, John pressed himself behind the wall a little so he could still see Sherlock and...And Victor? Victor Trevor? How strange. John was sure Sherlock had mentioned that he didn't like that boy. He was a year or so older than them too. The boy was built strong, taller than Sherlock, but only by an inch or so. He wore his light brown hair short and stylishly. John watched with a frown as he reached out for Sherlock, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend. His first reaction was to rush forward and smack his fist against Victor's jaw for coming onto Sherlock, but he caught himself on the wall as he watched Sherlock's hand rise after a moments hesitation to cup Victor's cheek, his head tilting in such a familiar way. Sherlock was returning the kiss. John stuttered back on himself, his lips parted and his eyes glazed,_

_"_ _Sherlock?" he called out._

_*****_

It was raining. Again. It was like a funeral scene from a cheap movie. One where it was obvious that the only way the director could force some actual emotion onto the actors was by making it rain and giving everyone black umbrellas. John's hand was warm in the touch of Sherlock's but he couldn't feel again. His sister wasn't here. John didn't know where she was. Her best friends in this whole situation were alcohol and sex, which caused her to end up in god knows where. His father was speaking, but John couldn't feel anything but anger in regards to the words he spoke. He should be saying them, because he was the one who loved her the most. Not his father. Never him.

Instead of looking at him, John stared at the wooden coffin as it was lowered into the ground, his grip on Sherlock's hand tightening as he came to touch Sherlock's arm, taking in a shaking breath as his eyes blurred with tears that he wouldn't allow to fall. Sherlock glanced at the boy and sighed, putting an arm around his shoulders. John appreciated it greatly.

The funeral was a large one. His mother was loved by everyone and everyone who entered her life, for seconds or years, was touched by her in some way. So, as the funeral ended there were may distant relatives and faceless friends to thank for coming and accept condolences from. It just made John angrier. What right did they have to be here? The anger was fuelled by guilt, and that was the root of it. He didn't blame any of these people for it, not really.

John hated it, but the funeral was over far too quickly. It felt like a final goodbye but it didn't bring him any closure. As it ended, John's father stepped over to the pair of them, running his eyes down Sherlock,

"Come home, John." his voice was hard and cold, and John couldn't tell if it was only grief that was causing that. He doubted it very much. His father had expressed to him that he should have visited his mother in her dying days. John had shouted in reply, but he never let on that his father was right. Nor that he couldn't feel his guilt any stronger.

John huffed a laugh, his eyes were red and teary but they were angry when directed at his father, "No." he replied, "I'm staying at Sherlock's tonight." there is a finality in his words that his father clearly doesn't react well to.

"Your mother, my wife, has just died and you are being too much of a brat to come home?" he replied in a heated tone.

Sherlock put a stop to the argument quickly and shook John's father off, steering John towards his home. The boy was seething, Sherlock could feel it through the hold he had on his hand, but no words were exchanged between the pair of them until they got into Sherlock's house,

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, removing his coat and hanging it up to dry. John kept his eyes fixed on the ground as his jaw clenched. Sherlock's mother had given them plenty of space and agreed to stay at a friends for the night, and his father was on a work placement in Zambia at the moment. John loved them both, they were so kind. Sherlock certainly didn't appreciate either of them enough.

"I'm fine," John snapped in reply, hanging up his coat and kicking off his shoes, each action done with an aggression which wasn't required. However, he looked up at Sherlock afterwards and a rush of emotion filled him. John had a problem. He was his father's son, and naturally he had some of his traits. One of those is converting every painful emotion to anger. And John had found that there was a sure fire way to relieve anger.

He stepped forward and - before Sherlock could question him - tangled his finger in the mess of curls atop the taller boys head, tightening his fingers them and pulling his head down into a harsh kiss. Their teeth got in the way due to the roughness of it but John took control quickly, slamming Sherlock back into the wall behind him and digging his teeth into his bottom lip. Following Sherlock's gasp, John took the chance to slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock was too surprised to react for a good ten seconds or so, but the sharp nip to his lip brought him back to the situation, and his hands came up to press against John's chest, meaning to push him away. Then the boys tongue rubbed against his and Sherlock seemed to melt back into the wall behind him, his hand scrunching into Johns shirt instead. John's nails scratched against Sherlock's scalp as his lips left to boys mouth, pressing hot wet kisses down his jaw. Sherlock's eyes closed and his mouth opened in a breathless moan,

"Christ, John." he exhaled, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

"We're going to your room," John said, his lips tickling against Sherlock's throat and his hot breath teasing the pale skin. There is something darker and more lustful in his tone than Sherlock has ever heard before. It has him whimpering humiliatingly as he nodded and doing exactly as he was told, running up the stairs as soon as John released him, pursued by the boy himself. John all but threw Sherlock onto the bed as they got in the room, quickly following him and straddling the boy, his crotch rubbing against Sherlock's. They're both hard now, and panting between each breath.

John couldn't speak, he was acting on pure adrenaline and arousal now. Dropping down to lick under Sherlock's ear, he bit the shell of it, his hips rolling against the brunettes. Sherlock swore under his breath and pressed his head back into the pillow.

Sherlock was his love and his distraction. He didn't bother with Sherlock fiddly shirt as there was nothing under it which was of interest to him at the moment. Instead, his fingers ran down the boys chest until he reached his trousers, cupping his hand over the bulge there and squeezing, smiling darkly at the choked moan he received in reply and dropping his head down to mouth against the material. There isn't long that Sherlock can stand this before his hand is in John's short hair, tightening painfully, and a squeaked 'John' is leaving his lips every few seconds. John smirked and untied Sherlock's trousers, tugging them down and wasting no time in taking the impressive cock into his hand, pumping it. His other hand reached down into his own trousers and wanked himself off in rhythm.

It isn't long before John's body seized up as he hit his orgasm, shooting all of Sherlock's leg and the sheets. Sherlock followed promptly.

Wiping his hand on the sheets, John crawled up into the bed next to Sherlock, admiring the red bite marks standing out against Sherlock's pale skin and reaching up to trail his fingers over them,

"Alright?" he asked, leaning up to peck Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock's laugh is rather amusing, and very strained,

"Alright? I'm very good, thank you. That was a rather unexpected surprise." he commented, shooting John an amused smile. John returned it and huffed a laugh, closing his eyes as it faded. It had been a long day, but hopefully the beginning of healing.

Even Sherlock fell asleep quite quickly that night, curled around John under twisted and bundled sheets. Together they would always be safe. But things can change in the passing of a second and all hearts are broken someday.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things continue to go downhill for John, but seem to be picking up for Sherlock. TW: Homophobic language, abuse.

"John?" A high pitched voice cut through John's thoughts, feeling much like a red hot sword had been thrust through the soft part of his skull. Mrs Bath had a voice which sounded not unlike the cry of a trodden on cat. Naturally, John jerked to attention, clearing his throat.

"Sorry," he muttered with all the energy he could manage on his few hours of sleep, blinking blearily at the hawk nosed woman staring back at him with pointed eyes. She reminded John of a bird, with a hooked nose and piercing, beady eyes.

"If you wish to spend the entire of this lesson asleep, Mr Watson, I have no problem with it but I'm not sure the headmaster, or your parents for that matter, would be entirely impressed!" she snapped, shooting daggers at him from across the room before going back to scribbling on the white board with as much aggression as her stumpy body could produce. She hadn't noticed her mistake, but John had and the few scattered throat clearings around the room told him others had to.

Mrs Bath was an idiot. All teachers are. They act as though they care for the students and the grades they get but in reality all they are to them is letters on a target sheet which have to be set and met. John felt the need to flunk his exam and go for a D instead of an A just to spite the bitch. He decided against it promptly, deciding that he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of watching him fail.

Beside him, Gregory Lestrade and Mike Stamford chuckled under their breath, clearly only finding the whole situation rather amusing as they were sat there giggling like a couple of 13 year old girls. They shut up after John directed a particularly harsh and well aimed kick against Greg's shin. He glanced across the room to where Sherlock sat.

The boy was slumped in his seat. The against-school-policy, blackened skinny jeans stuck to his legs and left nothing to the imagination. John eyes lifted from his worn out black converse trainers, up his legs to his lap. The denim was tight over the mound of his lap, covered by the pooling of an oversized, standard edition school jumper. The white collar stood out brightly against the dark material, seeming to fade into the boys porcelain skin. John finally raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's and near instantly turned a dark crimson as he found Sherlock staring back at him, his eyes alight with dark amusement. He flicked one eyelid shut in a wink, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. John averted his eyes. He felt as though he was stuck in some stupid game, with players attacking him from all fronts.

The rest of the Chemistry lesson pressed forward. They spent the last half an hour learning about Van der waals' forces and inter-molecular bonding through a series of cheesy Americanised tutorials which felt more like a slow form of torture. Creeping into their last few minutes, the teacher shot up with chilling purpose. John could feel the extended class time seeping into his nightmares, the chorus of groans from around the room suggested he wasn't the only one who struck this thought.

"As part of your final grade you are expected to work in pairs, or small groups, to produce a project on a subject of your choice," she said whilst stalking around the room, handing out squintly punched and badly printed booklets which would apparently guide them through this. "Read through this booklet as homework," she recited to every person she dropped the papers by, "You've got a few minutes before the bell. None of you are leaving until you tell me what group you belong to," Mrs Bath delivered a curt nod after addressing the class and swept a threatening gaze across them all before waving her hand dismissively.

John closed his eyes irritably in anticipation for the pure chaos that would surely follow her wave. He groaned as the still room exploded into a flurry of action and shouted claims of possession between friends and shag buddies. Grabbing his bag, he slung it over his shoulder and scribbled his name down next to Sherlock's on the glaringly blank list.

Sherlock was already gone, John concluded, with a spike of annoyance that the boy didn't wait for him. He followed his steps out of the class and jogged a few paces to catch up with the dark figure in the corridor.

"Thanks for waiting, you git." he huffed, but there was a fondness in his tone which suggested he didn't really mean the insult. Sherlock only rolled his eyes,

"You're a perfectly fit boy, John, with very good stamina-" there is a smirk laden glance sent John's way that has the smaller boy blushing darkly, "-I was sure you'd manage the two feet or so to catch up." he replied with another glance to check that the smaller boy wasn't actually irritated. He changed the subject promptly as John shot a glare in reply. "I thought we could do our project on orange juice." Sherlock said, his hand swinging by his side. John was utterly confused,

"Seriously?" he replied, his eyebrows raising, "What about it? Vitamin content?" he asked. Sherlock chuckled in reply.

"You must have been utterly enthralled in eye fucking me to miss that topic. It's all she was talking about for the entire lesson." He informed a rather dazed looking John, who elbowed him in the side for his comment, huffing a laugh in sync with Sherlock. The project was a conversation for another time because right now, a stranger would be forgiven for thinking the pair of them had spent the last week living out a vow not to sleep. John had his reasons. Sherlock never slept anyway.

It wasn't until they were a good bit away from the school gates that Sherlock's hand squirmed into Johns, their fingers intertwining in a familiar fashion. John blushed, as he so often found himself doing. It had been a good 6 months into their relationship before John had plucked up the courage to actually kiss Sherlock. Even the gentle touches exchanged between their hands still made John's temperature rise bashfully. Sherlock, however, had...Been around quite a bit before John.

John knew of five of them, not that he could remember the names exactly. He could remember what Sherlock had told him as being this, roughly:

_"I had five sexual partners between the age of 14 and meeting you. The first two are irrelevant, we barely touched lips. I gave the third only two sets of oral, the first was rather shabby but I quickly made up for it. The fourth took my virginity, his name was James-" Sherlock told him just as John's lips parted to ask the question, "-And I took the virginity of the fifth after becoming bolder and more experienced through my relationship with James." he finished promptly._

He summed up two years of dating in a few simple sentences.

John laughed when Sherlock had finished, and blamed 'James' profoundly for awakening the sexual beast within Sherlock. Ever since he had discovered all of this, he had began to feel the simmering of nerves in his stomach every time Sherlock's hand pushed into his trousers. Sherlock wanted to fuck him, but John was utterly terrified to allow him to do so. He'd read too much online and experienced too little to be ready for it. Sherlock would wait.

*****

John smiled tightly as they arrived outside his house. The sun was beginning to set now, as they had dawdled their way home in absent conversation about nothing in particular. The best kind of chat.

Sherlock sighed and drew John into a strangely gentle kiss before breaking away and pecking his forehead.

"I'll catch you later, John." he smacked the boys arse and shot a wink his way before smiling and letting go of John, giving a small wave and continuing down the street to head home.

John huffed a laugh to himself as he watched him do so, the sting left behind on his left cheek was strangely endearing. He slipped his key into the lock and frowned as it clicked. Why was the door already open? His father is still at work and his sister was staying at a friends. John pushed it open and stepped inside, glancing down at the shoes lying by the doorway and letting a soft exhale through his lips as he spotted his dad's work boots lying in the middle of the hall.

"Dad?" John called, kicking off his shoes and narrowing his eyes as he spotted his father by the kitchen window, his eyes hard as he stared out of the glass. The stench of alcohol was unmistakable. John's stomach turned as he glanced out the window to see the drive where Sherlock and himself were stood but minutes ago.

John's father had one hand on his hip, the other clasped tightly around the edge of the counter cutting into his opposite hip. It was obvious that he needed the counter there to stay upright successfully. That spike of anger John was becoming all too familiar with returned.

"How much have you had to fucking drink?" he asked his father, his tone clipped.

John and his father didn't get on at the best of times, so when the latter was intoxicated and irritable, John despised him. The man had never hit him. John had received countless numbers of lectures, rows and violent arguments from his father but the man had never laid a finger on him. But people react to guilt in different ways, and the streak of anger and roughness that John had wasn't inherited from his mother.

"You..." John's father started, his face screwing into a twisted expression as he rolled the words around his mouth, trying to piece them together. "You had to be a _fucking_ faggot." he laughed, his voice bitter. John's jaw clenched, the nerve under his eye spasming in an irritated twitch. His father had never been happy about John being homosexual, but he hadn't expressed his anger towards it either. So, the harsh insult makes John take a step back, an expression of mingled confusion and hurt swimming over his features but disappearing just a split second later.

"Fuck you." he seethed in reply, through gritted teeth.

"As if Josie wasn't 'nough, my only son is a fucking cock sucker!" He shouted.

John clenched his fists by his sides, "Dad!" he yelped in reply, taken off guard by the sudden onslaught of vicious insults but standing his ground, "If you have a problem with my sexuality, you have never expressed it before." he pointed out, knowing that this was the worst time to have a conversation like this with his father but unable to stop himself from blurting out rapid means of defence.

There was a cruel laugh, "Jos' was-dying and you! You di'nt even notice b'cause you're shagging your boyfriend!" he screamed. John's eyes glazed over with tears following his father's cry and he couldn't stop the choked sob that forced itself out of his throat. His father laughed, his lips pulled back in a snarl, "Should've fucking known." he slurred, gesturing with the hand which was holding a tin of beer. As though the fact John was crying following his mother's death was a tell tale sign he was gay.

"Bastard. You fucking bastard." John pushed past his father with the intention of running up the stairs.

A hand grabbed his upper armed and tugged him back with such force that John slammed his hip into the corner of the table and stumbled backward, ending up on his arse on the ground. He blinked rapidly before pressing his hands flat to the ground and shoving himself up with a snarl, shoving his father's chest with all his strength, which was considerably less than his father's, "Don't touch me again." he shouted, his blue eyes narrowed in the determination to appear threatening.

It didn't work.

Johns eyes screwed shut just as his father's large hand smacked across the side of his head, the cool of his father's wedding ring slicing John's skin as it was pinned between bone and metal. John staggered into the wall, catching himself and looking up with wide eyes, his shoulders tensing as his fathers hand pressed against his throat, applying pressure as Johns back cracked against the plasterboard.

Their faces were close. John's was steeped with a mix of anger, guilt and fear, his eyes were wide and sloping up against the bridge of his nose, delicate with the threat of tears. His bottom lip was pulled into his mouth, caught by his teeth in an attempt to control his emotions as his eyes scattered between his father's face, the door and the floor. His father's was morphed into twisted anger, staring at his son with furious eyes. The hand around John's throat was white as it tightened, his knuckles pressing through the skin.

John started to panic as his air supply was cut off. Instantly his hands shot up to his father, scratching at them in a desperate attempt to free himself. He released a few choked pleas of "D-Da-" before resulting to violence, kicking at his fathers legs and digging his nails into the man's calloused arms. But he is weakened both by panic and by the lack of oxygen. It wasn't until John's eyes were blurring that his father tugged his hand back and John collapsed under his own weight, slumping against the wall and gasping in panicked mouthfuls of air, staring up at his father in terror. The man grabbed his tin of beer and sauntered away, stumbling over his feet and retching a loud burp, leaving John's earshot with another muttered insult.

John pulled his knees up and raised a shaking hand to his lips, pressing his knuckles against his lips. Tears stick to his eyelashes as he blinks and drop off, tumbling down his cheeks clumsily.

*****

Sherlock scribbled down notes transferred from his textbook absently, glancing over at his phone as it lit up and flickering his eyes over the message it relayed, sent over Facebook messenger.

'Victor Trevor: Hey :p'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, recalling just who Victor Trevor was. A rather attractive boy in his school group, a year old than him. He found himself smiling as he replied, his chest warming and his stomach giving a bashful twitch.

'Sherlock Holmes: Hello :)'


End file.
